


Absolutely Not Cuddling

by MeldeBaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, but a bunch of them, telling a story together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeldeBaggins/pseuds/MeldeBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock almost always uses his head to express himself. It’s the seat of Reason, the part most detached from all the unpredictable anomalies of the body. His head is just so much easier to work with than the rest of him. </p><p>Also, he’d like it to go on the record that this is Absolutely Not Cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time

The first time it happened was in the early days of Baker Street. They had just completed a long and arduous case, and Sherlock was coming off the accompanying euphoria. John was enjoying his last moments of blissful peace before the boredom set in again. 

At some point while John sat ensconced in the warmth of his armchair plus tea, Sherlock suddenly loomed over him.

“Yes?” John blinked, curious.

Sherlock made no reply, but flopped into something of a kneeling position beside John’s chair, draping himself over the arm and resting the top of his head against John’s shoulder.  
Having been already somewhat acclimated to Sherlock’s eccentric habits, John took this in stride. He didn’t move, either to force more contact on Sherlock or to pull away from what he had initiated. Because it was fine. It wasn’t invasive—well, it was a little odd, at the very least not What People Do, but it wasn’t… inappropriate. It was sort of endearing, in an innocent, childish way. 

They remained like that in silence for about three minutes, and then Sherlock straightened up, gliding into the kitchen like nothing had happened. John smiled into his mug, adding this anecdote to his mental list of special, private things in his daft friendship with Sherlock Holmes that wouldn’t find their way onto his blog.


	2. The Second Time

By the time it happened again, John had almost forgotten the first. Sherlock hadn’t had a case for four days, and the last one had been solved in twenty minutes, without necessitating Sherlock’s leaving the flat. Needless to say, this left the consulting five-year-old unspeakably bored. Unspeakably, because he hadn’t spoken to John in twenty-seven hours. John had gotten fed up with trying to ease Sherlock’s boredom three hours into it, and was now retaliating by ignoring Sherlock in turn.

At some point, Sherlock finally stood in front of John with a look of utter resentment on his face. From his contented position on the couch, John met his gaze with calm steel. He would not be the first to back down.

As if being pulled against his will, Sherlock climbed onto the couch, squatting perpendicular to John, and head-butted John’s side, wedging his head between John’s arm and the back of the couch. 

John rolled his eyes but did not give voice to his amusement, instead lifting his arm to rest on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock seemed to crumple with relief then, settling into a more comfortable position.

For the longest time, they sat there in peace, John content to continue reading his book. 

But nothing good lasts forever, and Sherlock eventually surrendered the war of silence.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m bored.”


	3. The Third Time

The third time, they were still on a case when it happened. Part of the gang they had chased into this warehouse had doubled back to ambush John. Gunshots rang, and Sherlock had come running at the sound, panic in his expression until he realized that John was intact and had taken care of his assailants most efficiently. 

“What is it?” John asked when Sherlock appeared to be having trouble processing this development.

Sherlock said nothing in response, simply glancing at the wall behind them. John stepped back against it, secretly grateful for the support, and Sherlock followed him. Keeping yet some distance between them, Sherlock tugged on John’s sleeve until they were both squatting against the wall. Then Sherlock ducked his head to rest his forehead on John’s shoulder, letting out a shaky sigh as he did. John smiled briefly to himself and raised a hand to catch on the lapel of Sherlock’s coat. Thus mutually grounded, they sat in contentment despite the aftermath around them. 

John could tell that it was with reluctance that Sherlock finally pulled away when footsteps could be heard pounding down the corridor. As Sherlock stood, John gave one last tug on his coat, smiling up at him with silent affirmation he knew Sherlock would recognize. And just before Lestrade’s men arrived, Sherlock smiled back.


	4. The Fourth Time

The fourth time, John was sure that it wasn’t primarily for Sherlock’s benefit. 

He had just come home from a date with The One after the Boring Teacher, which had ended very badly. (He’d been forty minutes late for dinner, his excuse being that Sherlock had needed him for a case, which was true. She then assumed that there must have been more going on than that, which was not true.) Long story short, John left the restaurant with a wet shirt, an empty stomach, and an expensive dinner-bill for one.

As he finally walked into his home sweet flat, he knew that Sherlock’s powers of deduction were taking stock of everything that happened since he’d left. He was about to tell him off—he didn’t want to hear any “I told you so’s” tonight—but Sherlock surprised him. Without a word, the detective stood from his chair, ghosted over to him, and bowed his head to John’s shoulder. John froze, finding this only slightly less awkward than a full-fledged hug would have been, but also… oddly touching. In that clumsy, unpracticed, Sherlockian way. 

After a few seconds, Sherlock straightened and went back to whatever he’d been doing before John came home, generously giving John his space. John smiled and decided that this rare display of tact deserved tea. And biscuits.


	5. And Once, John Did It First

Every Sunday morning, he would come. Every Sunday morning, the headstone was waiting for him. Sometimes he would stand in silence, then leave. Sometimes he brought flowers, superfluous though Sherlock would have considered them. Sometimes he would tell the headstone about the pointless and dull happenings in his life.

But this day, knowing he was safe in his solitude, John let himself fall to his knees on the now-thick grass, doubling over to rest his forehead on the cold, black stone. Later, he would recall with shame that he had cried, but for now he simply let his control unravel.  
The stone stood unyielding, as emotionless as Sherlock had pretended to be in life, as unwavering as the man himself would have been, if John had ever collapsed on him like this. As surely _there_ as John had been, had tried to be, whenever Sherlock had sought physical comfort from him with his _head_ , of all things.

That was Sherlock for you.

John stood, slowly pulled himself together, dashing away the straggling tears. Gratefully, the headstone made no snide comment about his weakness. And even though he could just hear Sherlock saying something like that, he was somehow certain that… he wouldn’t. Not for this.

Oddly comforted—maybe the head thing really worked—he left feeling lighter than he’d been before.


	6. Epilogue

It happened once John finally welcomed his long-lost friend home. After all the time it took to reconcile himself to what Sherlock’s return fully entailed, John allowed Sherlock to carefully approach, to tentatively touch his forehead to John’s shoulder, only to pull the idiot into a proper hug, because he rather deserved one after grieving for two years. 

It happened in the aftermath, when Sherlock would come wandering into John’s room, just to make sure that they were both really there, still breathing. More than once, John awoke to find Sherlock’s head snugged up to his elbow, the detective having folded himself into a chair beside John’s bed at some point in the night.

It’ll happen as John makes breakfast for them both after long, sleepless nights, or occasionally when they watch movies together on the couch. Never very often, but enough to be familiar.

John doesn’t keep track anymore. The novelty has worn off, but not the satisfaction John has in knowing that Sherlock trusts him, sure that John won’t push him away in the name of “propriety,” (perhaps like some before him had). They never speak about it, of course, but John was secretly glad that they had back this little bit of (what was for them) normalcy. Because even they needed mundane and domestic sometimes. Just a bit.


End file.
